[247] Henry Scott, afterwards Lord Polwarth.

[248] Slightly altered from Pope's _Eloisa to Abelard_.

[249] The Catalogue of Criminals brought before the Circuit Courts at
one time was termed in Scotland the Portuous Roll. The name appears to
have been derived from the practice in early times of delivering to the
judges lists of Criminals for Trials _in Portu_, or in the gateway as
they entered the various towns on their circuit ayres.--Chambers's _Book
of Scotland_, p. 310.

Jamieson suggests that the word may have come from "Porteous" as
originally applied to a Breviary, or portable book of prayers, which
might easily be transferred to a portable roll of indictments.

[250] _Quarterly Review_, No. 66, Pepys' _Diary_.

[251] _Twelfth Night_, Act II. Sc. 3.

[252] See Froissart's account of the Battle of Crecy, Bk. i. cap. 129.

[253] _Merry Wives of Windsor_, Act iv. Sc. 1.

[254] See Goldsmith's Comedy, Act III.

[255] _King Lear_, Act III. Sc. 2.

[256] James Pringle, Convener of Selkirkshire for more than half a
century. For an account of the Pringles of Torwoodlee, see Mr. Craig
Brown's _History of Selkirkshire_, vol. i. pp. 459-470.

[257] "_The Insurrection of the Papers--a Dream_." _The Twopenny
Post-Bag_, 12mo, London, 1812.

[258] The well-known ballads on these two North-country legends were
published by M.G. Lewis and Mr. Lambe, of Norham. "Sir Guy," in the
_Tales of Wonder_, and "The Worm," in Ritson's _Northumberland
Garland_.--See Child's _English and Scottish Ballads_, 8 vols. 12mo,
Boston, 1857, vol. i. p. 386.

[259] _Fyn Segellak wel brand en vast houd_: old brand used by
sealing-wax makers.

[260] _Balaam_ is the cant name in a Newspaper Office for asinine
paragraphs, about monstrous productions of Nature and the like, kept
standing in type to be used whenever the real news of the day leaves an
awkward space that must be filled up somehow.--J.G.L.

[261] _Henry VIII._ Act III. Sc. 2.

[262] Ritson, _Scottish Songs_, xvi.




MAY.


_May_ 1.--I walked to-day to the western corner of the Chiefswood
plantation, and marked out a large additional plantation to be drawn
along the face of the hill. It cost me some trouble to carry the
boundaries out of the eye, for nothing is so paltry as a plantation of
almost any extent if its whole extent lies defined to the eye. By
availing myself of the undulations of the ground I think I have avoided
this for the present; only when seen from the Eildon Hills the cranks
and turns of the enclosure will seem fantastic, at least until the trees
get high.

This cost Tom and me three or four hours. Lieut.-Colonel Ferguson joined
us as we went home, and dined at Abbotsford.

My cousin, Barbara Scott of Raeburn, came here to see Lady S. I think
she was shocked with the melancholy change. She insisted upon walking
back to Lessudden House, making her walk 16 or 18 miles, and though the
carriage was ordered she would not enter it.

_May_ 2.--Yesterday was a splendid May day--to-day seems inclined to be
_soft_, as we call it; but _tant mieux_. Yesterday had a twang of frost
in it. I must get to work and finish Boaden's _Life of Kemble_, and
Kelly's _Reminiscences_,[263] for the _Quarterly_.

I wrote and read for three hours, and then walked, the day being soft
and delightful; but alas! all my walks are lonely from the absence of my
poor companion. She does not suffer, thank God, but strength must fail
at last. Since Sunday there has been a gradual change--very
gradual--but, alas! to the worse. My hopes are almost gone. But I am
determined to stand this grief as I have done others.

_May_ 3,--Another fine morning. I answered a letter from Mr. Handley,
who has taken the pains to rummage the Chancery Records until he has
actually discovered the fund due to Lady Scott's mother, £1200; it seems
to have been invested in the estates of a Mr. Owen, as it appears for
Madame Charpentier's benefit, but, she dying, the fund was lost sight of
and got into Chancery, where I suppose it must have accumulated, but I
cannot say I understand the matter; at a happier moment the news would
have given poor Charlotte much pleasure, but now--it is a day too late.

_May_ 4.--On visiting Lady Scott's sick-room this morning I found her
suffering, and I doubt if she knew me. Yet, after breakfast, she seemed
serene and composed. The worst is, she will not speak out about the
symptoms under which she labours. Sad, sad work; I am under the most
melancholy apprehension, for what constitution can hold out under these
continued and wasting attacks?

My niece, Anne Scott, a prudent, sensible, and kind young woman, arrived
to-day, having come down to assist us in our distress from so far as
Cheltenham. This is a great consolation.

_May_ 5.--Haunted by gloomy thoughts; but I corrected proofs from seven
to ten, and wrote from half-past ten to one. My old friend Sir Adam
called, and took a long walk with me, which was charity. His gaiety
rubbed me up a little. I had also a visit from the Laird and Lady of
Harden. Henry Scott carries the county without opposition.

_May_ 6.--- The same scene of hopeless (almost) and unavailing anxiety.
Still welcoming me with a smile, and asserting she is better. I fear the
disease is too deeply entwined with the principles of life. Yet the
increase of good weather, especially if it would turn more genial,
might, I think, aid her excellent constitution. Still labouring at this
_Review_, without heart or spirits to finish it. I am a tolerable Stoic,
but preach to myself in vain.

    "Since these things are necessities,
    Then let us meet them like necessities."[264]

And so we will.

_May_ 7.--Hammered on at the _Review_ till my backbone ached. But I
believe it was a nervous affection, for a walk cured it. Sir Adam and
the Colonel dined here. So I spent the evening as pleasantly as I well
could, considering I am so soon to leave my own house, and go like a
stranger to the town of which I have been so long a citizen, and leave
my wife lingering, without prospect of recovery, under the charge of two
poor girls. _Talia cogit dura necessitas._

_May_ 8.--I went over to the election at Jedburgh. There was a numerous
meeting; the Whigs, who did not bring ten men to the meeting, of course
took the whole matter under their patronage, which was much of a piece
with the Blue Bottle drawing the carriage. I tried to pull up once or
twice, but quietly, having no desire to disturb the quiet of the
election. To see the difference of modern times! We had a good dinner,
and excellent wine; and I had ordered my carriage at half-past seven,
almost ashamed to start so soon. Everybody dispersed at so early an
hour, however, that when Henry had left the chair, there was no carriage
for me, and Peter proved his accuracy by showing me it was but a
quarter-past seven. In the days I remember they would have kept it up
till day-light; nor do I think poor Don would have left the chair before
midnight. Well, there is a medium. Without being a veteran Vice, a grey
Iniquity, like Falstaff, I think an occasional jolly bout, if not
carried to excess, improved society; men were put into good humour; when
the good wine did its good office, the jest, the song, the speech, had
double effect; men were happy for the night, and better friends ever
after, because they had been so.

_May_ 9.--My new Liverpool neighbour, Mr. Bainbridge, breakfasts here
to-day with some of his family. They wish to try the fishing in
Cauldshields Loch, and [there is] promise of a fine soft morning. But
the season is too early.

They have had no sport accordingly after trying with Trimmers. Mr.
Bainbridge is a good cut of John Bull--plain, sensible, and downright;
the maker of his own fortune, and son of his own works.

_May_ 10.--To-morrow I leave my home. To what scene I may suddenly be
recalled, it wrings my heart to think. If she would but be guided by the
medical people, and attend rigidly to their orders, something might be
hoped, but she is impatient with the protracted suffering, and no
wonder. Anne has a severe task to perform, but the assistance of her
cousin is a great comfort. Baron Weber, the great composer, wants me
(through Lockhart) to compose something to be set to music by him, and
sung by Miss Stephens--as if I cared who set or who sung any lines of
mine. I have recommended instead Beaumont and Fletcher's unrivalled song
in the _Nice Valour_:

    "Hence, all ye vain delights," etc.

[_Edinburgh_],[265] _May_ 11.--

    "Der Abschiedstag ist da,
    Schwer liegt er auf den Herzen--schwer."[266]

Charlotte was unable to take leave of me, being in a sound sleep, after
a very indifferent night. Perhaps it was as well. Emotion might have
hurt her; and nothing I could have expressed would have been worth the
risk. I have foreseen, for two years and more, that this menaced event
could not be far distant. I have seen plainly, within the last two
months, that recovery was hopeless. And yet to part with the companion
of twenty-nine years when so very ill--that I did not, could not
foresee.[267] It withers my heart to think of it, and to recollect that
I can hardly hope again to seek confidence and counsel from that ear to
which all might be safely confided. But in her present lethargic state,
what would my attentions have availed? and Anne has promised close and
constant intelligence. I must dine with James Ballantyne to-day _en
famille_. I cannot help it; but would rather be at home and alone.
However, I can go out too. I will not yield to the barren sense of
hopelessness which struggles to invade me. I passed a pleasant day with
honest J.B., which was a great relief from the black dog which would
have worried me at home. We were quite alone.

_[Edinburgh,] May_ 12.--Well, here I am in Arden. And I may say with
Touchstone, "When I was at home I was in a better place,"[268] and yet
this is not by any means to be complained of. Good apartments, the
people civil and apparently attentive. No appearance of smoke, and
absolute warrandice against my dreaded enemies, bugs. I must, when there
is occasion, draw to my own Bailie Nicol Jarvie's consolation, "One
cannot carry the comforts of the Saut-Market about with one." Were I at
ease in mind, I think the body is very well cared for. I have two steady
servants, a man and woman, and they seem to set out sensibly enough.
Only one lodger in the house, a Mr. Shandy, a clergyman; and despite his
name, said to be a quiet one.

_May_ 13.--The projected measure against the Scottish bank-notes has
been abandoned, the resistance being general. _Malachi_ might clap his
wings upon this, but, alas! domestic anxiety has cut his comb.

I think very lightly in general of praise; it costs men nothing, and is
usually only lip-salve. They wish to please, and must suppose that
flattery is the ready road to the good will of every professor of
literature. Some praise, however, and from some people, does at once
delight and strengthen the mind, and I insert in this place the
quotation with which Ld. C. Baron Shepherd concluded a letter concerning
me to the Chief Commissioner: "_Magna etiam illa laus et admirabilis
videri solet tulisse casus sapienter adversos, non fractum esse fortunâ,
retinuisse in rebus asperis dignitatem._"[269] I record these words, not
as meriting the high praise they imply, but to remind me that such an
opinion being partially entertained of me by a man of a character so
eminent, it becomes me to make my conduct approach as much as possible
to the standard at which he rates it.

As I must pay back to Terry some cash in London, £170, together with
other matters here, I have borrowed from Mr. Alexander Ballantyne the
sum of £500, upon a promissory note for £512, 10s. payable 15th November
to him or his order. If God should call me before that time, I request
my son Walter will, in reverence to my memory, see that Mr. Alexander
Ballantyne does not suffer for having obliged me in a sort of
exigency--he cannot afford it, and God has given my son the means to
repay him.

_May_ 14.--A fair good-morrow to you, Mr. Sun, who are shining so
brightly on these dull walls. Methinks you look as if you were looking
as bright on the banks of the Tweed; but look where you will, Sir Sun,
you look upon sorrow and suffering. Hogg was here yesterday in danger,
from having obtained an accommodation of £100 from Mr. Ballantyne, which
he is now obliged to repay. I am unable to help the poor fellow, being
obliged to borrow myself. But I long ago remonstrated against the
transaction at all, and gave him £50 out of my pocket to avoid granting
the accommodation, but it did no good.

_May_ 15.--Received the melancholy intelligence that all is over at
Abbotsford.

[_Abbotsford_,] _May_ 16.--She died at nine in the morning, after being
very ill for two days,--easy at last.

I arrived here late last night. Anne is worn out, and has had hysterics,
which returned on my arrival. Her broken accents were like those of a
child, the language, as well as the tones, broken, but in the most
gentle voice of submission. "Poor mamma--never return again--'gone for
ever--a better place." Then, when she came to herself, she spoke with
sense, freedom, and strength of mind, till her weakness returned. It
would have been inexpressibly moving to me as a stranger--what was it
then to the father and the husband? For myself, I scarce know how I
feel, sometimes as firm as the Bass Rock, sometimes as weak as the wave
that breaks on it.

I am as alert at thinking and deciding as I ever was in my life. Yet,
when I contrast what this place now is, with what it has been not long
since, I think my heart will break. Lonely, aged, deprived of my
family--all but poor Anne, an impoverished and embarrassed man, I am
deprived of the sharer of my thoughts and counsels, who could always
talk down my sense of the calamitous apprehensions which break the heart
that must bear them alone. Even her foibles were of service to me, by
giving me things to think of beyond my weary self-reflections.

I have seen her. The figure I beheld is, and is not, my Charlotte--my
thirty years' companion. There is the same symmetry of form, though
those limbs are rigid which were once so gracefully elastic--but that
yellow masque, with pinched features, which seems to mock life rather
than emulate it, can it be the face that was once so full of lively
expression? I will not look on it again. Anne thinks her little changed,
because the latest idea she had formed of her mother is as she appeared
under circumstances of sickness and pain. Mine go back to a period of
comparative health. If I write long in this way, I shall write down my
resolution, which I should rather write up, if I could. I wonder how I
shall do with the large portion of thoughts which were hers for thirty
years. I suspect they will be hers yet for a long time at least. But I
will not blaze cambric and crape in the public eye like a disconsolate
widower, that most affected of all characters.

_May_ 17.--- Last night Anne, after conversing with apparent ease,
dropped suddenly down as she rose from the supper-table, and lay six or
seven minutes as if dead. Clarkson, however, has no fear of these
affections.

_May_ 18.--Another day, and a bright one to the external world, again
opens on us; the air soft, and the flowers smiling, and the leaves
glittering. They cannot refresh her to whom mild weather was a natural
enjoyment. Cerements of lead and of wood already hold her; cold earth
must have her soon. But it is not my Charlotte, it is not the bride of
my youth, the mother of my children, that will be laid among the ruins
of Dryburgh, which we have so often visited in gaiety and pastime. No,
no. She is sentient and conscious of my emotions somewhere--somehow;
_where_ we cannot tell; _how_ we cannot tell; yet would I not at this
moment renounce the mysterious yet certain hope that I shall see her in
a better world, for all that this world can give me. The necessity of
this separation,--that necessity which rendered it even a relief,--that
and patience must be my comfort. I do not experience those paroxysms of
grief which others do on the same occasion. I can exert myself and speak
even cheerfully with the poor girls. But alone, or if anything touches
me--the choking sensation. I have been to her room: there was no voice
in it--no stirring; the pressure of the coffin was visible on the bed,
but it had been removed elsewhere; all was neat as she loved it, but
all was calm--calm as death. I remembered the last sight of her; she
raised herself in bed, and tried to turn her eyes after me, and said,
with a sort of smile, "You all have such melancholy faces." They were
the last words I ever heard her utter, and I hurried away, for she did
not seem quite conscious of what she said. When I returned, immediately
[before] departing, she was in a deep sleep. It is deeper now. This was
but seven days since.

They are arranging the chamber of death; that which was long the
apartment of connubial happiness, and of whose arrangements (better than
in richer houses) she was so proud. They are treading fast and thick.
For weeks you could have heard a foot-fall. Oh, my God!

_May_ 19.--Anne, poor love, is ill with her exertions and
agitation--cannot walk--and is still hysterical, though less so. I
advised flesh-brush and tepid bath, which I think will bring her about.
We speak freely of her whom we have lost, and mix her name with our
ordinary conversation. This is the rule of nature. All primitive people
speak of their dead, and I think virtuously and wisely. The idea of
blotting the names of those who are gone out of the language and
familiar discourse of those to whom they were dearest is one of the
rules of ultra-civilisation which, in so many instances, strangle
natural feeling by way of avoiding a painful sensation. The Highlanders
speak of their dead children as freely as of their living, and mention
how poor Colin or Robert would have acted in such or such a situation.
It is a generous and manly tone of feeling; and, so far as it may be
adopted without affectation or contradicting the general habits of
society, I reckon on observing it.

_May_ 20.--To-night, I trust, will bring Charles or Lockhart, or both;
at least I must hear from them. A letter from Violet [Lockhart] gave us
the painful intelligence that she had not mentioned to Sophia the
dangerous state in which her mother was. Most kindly meant, but
certainly not so well judged. I have always thought that truth, even
when painful, is a great duty on such occasions, and it is seldom that
concealment is justifiable.

Sophia's baby was christened on Sunday, 14th May, at Brighton, by the
name of Walter Scott.[270] May God give him life and health to wear it
with credit to himself and those belonging to him. Melancholy to think
that the next morning after this ceremony deprived him of so near a
relation. Sent Mr. Curle £11 to remit Mrs. Bohn, York Street, Covent
Garden, for books--I thought I had paid the poor woman before.

_May_ 21.--Our sad preparations for to-morrow continue. A letter from
Lockhart; doubtful if Sophia's health or his own state of business will
let him be here. If things permit he comes to-night. From Charles not a
word; but I think I may expect him. I wish to-morrow were over; not that
I fear it, for my nerves are pretty good, but it will be a day of many
recollections.

_May_ 22.--Charles arrived last night, much affected of course. Anne had
a return of her fainting-fits on seeing him, and again upon seeing Mr.
Ramsay, the gentleman who performs the service.[271] I heard him do so
with the utmost propriety for my late friend, Lady Alvanley,[272] the
arrangement of whose funeral devolved upon me. How little I could guess
when, where, and with respect to whom I should next hear those solemn
words. Well, I am not apt to shrink from that which is my duty, merely
because it is painful; but I wish this day over. A kind of cloud of
stupidity hangs about me, as if all were unreal that men seem to be
doing and talking about.

_May_ 23.--About an hour before the mournful ceremony of yesterday,
Walter arrived, having travelled express from Ireland on receiving the
news. He was much affected, poor fellow, and no wonder. Poor Charlotte
nursed him, and perhaps for that reason she was ever partial to him. The
whole scene floats as a sort of dream before me--the beautiful day, the
grey ruins covered and hidden among clouds of foliage and flourish,
where the grave, even in the lap of beauty, lay lurking and gaped for
its prey. Then the grave looks, the hasty important bustle of men with
spades and mattocks--the train of carriages--the coffin containing the
creature that was so long the dearest on earth to me, and whom I was to
consign to the very spot which in pleasure-parties we so frequently
visited. It seems still as if this could not be really so. But it is
so--and duty to God and to my children must teach me patience.

Poor Anne has had longer fits since our arrival from Dryburgh than
before, but yesterday was the crisis. She desired to hear prayers read
by Mr. Ramsay, who performed the duty in a most solemn manner. But her
strength could not carry it through. She fainted before the service was
concluded.[273]

_May_ 24.--Slept wretchedly, or rather waked wretchedly, all night, and
was very sick and bilious in consequence, and scarce able to hold up my
head with pain. A walk, however, with my sons did me a great deal of
good; indeed their society is the greatest support the world can afford
me. Their ideas of everything are so just and honourable, kind towards
their sisters, and affectionate to me, that I must be grateful to God
for sparing them to me, and continue to battle with the world for their
sakes, if not for my own.

_May_ 25.--I had sound sleep to-night, and waked with little or nothing
of the strange, dreamy feeling which made me for some days feel like one
bewildered in a country where mist or snow has disguised those features
of the landscape which are best known to him.

Walter leaves me to-day; he seems disposed to take interest in country
affairs, which will be an immense resource, supposing him to tire of the
army in a few years. Charles, he and I, went up to Ashestiel to call
upon the Misses Russell, who have kindly promised to see Anne on
Tuesday. This evening Walter left us, being anxious to return to his
wife as well as to his regiment. We expect he will be here early in
autumn, with his household.

_May_ 26.--A rough morning, and makes me think of St. George's Channel,
which Walter must cross to-night or to-morrow to get to Athlone. The
wind is almost due east, however, and the channel at the narrowest point
between Port-Patrick and Donaghadee. His absence is a great blank in our
circle, especially, I think, to his sister Anne, to whom he shows
invariably much kindness. But indeed they do so without exception each
towards the other; and in weal or woe have shown themselves a family of
love. No persuasion could force on Walter any of his poor mother's
ornaments for his wife. He undid a reading-glass from the gold chain to
which it was suspended, and agreed to give the glass to Jane, but would
on no account retain the chain. I will go to town on Monday and resume
my labours. Being of a grave nature, they cannot go against the general
temper of my feelings, and in other respects the exertion, as far as I
am concerned, will do me good; besides, I must re-establish my fortune
for the sake of the children, and of my own character. I have not
leisure to indulge the disabling and discouraging thoughts that press on
me. Were an enemy coming upon my house, would I not do my best to fight,
although oppressed in spirits, and shall a similar despondency prevent
me from mental exertion? It shall not, by Heaven! This day and to-morrow
I give to the currency of the ideas which have of late occupied my mind,
and with Monday they shall be mingled at least with other thoughts and
cares. Last night Charles and I walked late on the terrace at Kaeside,
when the clouds seemed accumulating in the wildest masses both on the
Eildon Hills and other mountains in the distance. This rough morning
reads the riddle.

Dull, drooping, cheerless has the day been. I cared not to carry my own
gloom to the girls, and so sate in my own room, dawdling with old
papers, which awakened as many stings as if they had been the nest of
fifty scorpions. Then the solitude seemed so absolute--my poor Charlotte
would have been in the room half-a-score of times to see if the fire
burned, and to ask a hundred kind questions. Well, that is over--and if
it cannot be forgotten, must be remembered with patience.

_May_ 27.--A sleepless night. It is time I should be up and be doing,
and a sleepless night sometimes furnishes good ideas. Alas! I have no
companion now with whom I can communicate to relieve the loneliness of
these watches of the night. But I must not fail myself and my
family--and the necessity of exertion becomes apparent. I must try a
_hors d'oeuvre_, something that can go on between the necessary
intervals of _Nap._ Mrs. M[urray] K[eith's] Tale of the Deserter, with
her interview with the lad's mother, may be made most affecting, but
will hardly endure much expansion.[274] The framework may be a Highland
tour, under the guardianship of the sort of postilion, whom Mrs. M.K.
described to me--a species of conductor who regulated the motions of his
company, made their halts, and was their cicerone.

_May_ 28.--I wrote a few pages yesterday, and then walked. I believe the
description of the old Scottish lady may do, but the change has been
unceasingly rung upon Scottish subjects of late, and it strikes me that
the introductory matter may be considered as an imitation of Washington
Irving. Yet not so neither. In short, I will go on, to-day make a dozen
of close pages ready, and take J.B.'s advice. I intend the work as an
_olla podrida_, into which any species of narrative or discussion may be
thrown.

I wrote easily. I think the exertion has done me good. I slept sound
last night, and at waking, as is usual with me, I found I had some clear
views and thoughts upon the subject of this trifling work. I wonder if
others find so strongly as I do the truth of the Latin proverb, _Aurora
musis amica_. If I forget a thing over-night, I am sure to recollect it
as my eyes open in the morning. The same if I want an idea, or am
encumbered by some difficulty, the moment of waking always supplies the
deficiency, or gives me courage to endure the alternative.[275]

_May_ 29.--To-day I leave for Edinburgh this house of sorrow. In the
midst of such distress, I have the great pleasure to see Anne regaining
her health, and showing both patience and steadiness of mind. God
continue this, for my own sake as well as hers. Much of my future
comfort must depend upon her.

[_Edinburgh_,] _May_ 30.--Returned to town last night with Charles. This
morning resume ordinary habits of rising early, working in the morning,
and attending the Court. All will come easily round. But it is at first
as if men looked strange on me, and bit their lip when they wring my
hand, and indicated suppressed feelings. It is natural this should
be--undoubtedly it has been so with me. Yet it is strange to find
one's-self resemble a cloud which darkens gaiety wherever it interposes
its chilling shade. Will it be better when, left to my own feelings, I
see the whole world pipe and dance around me? I think it will. Thus
sympathy intrudes on my private affliction.

I finished correcting the proofs for the _Quarterly_; it is but a flimsy
article, but then the circumstances were most untoward.

This has been a melancholy day, most melancholy. I am afraid poor
Charles found me weeping. I do not know what other folks feel, but with
me the hysterical passion that impels tears is of terrible violence--a
sort of throttling sensation--then succeeded by a state of dreaming
stupidity, in which I ask if my poor Charlotte can actually be dead. I
think I feel my loss more than at the first blow.

Poor Charles wishes to come back to study here when his term ends at
Oxford. I can see the motive.

_May_ 31.--The melancholy hours of yesterday must not return. To
encourage that dreamy state of incapacity is to resign all authority
over the mind, and I have been wont to say--

    "My mind to me a kingdom is."[276]
I am rightful monarch; and, God to aid, I will not be dethroned by any
rebellious passion that may rear its standard against me. Such are
morning thoughts, strong as carle-hemp--says Burns--

    "Come, firm Resolve, take thou the van,
    Thou stalk of carle-hemp in man."

Charles went by the steam-boat this morning at six. We parted last night
mournfully on both sides. Poor boy, this is his first serious sorrow.
Wrote this morning a Memorial on the Claims which Constable's people
prefer as to the copyrights of _Woodstock_ and _Napoleon_.[277]

FOOTNOTES:

[263] See _Miscellaneous Prose Works_, vol. xx. pp. 152-244, or
_Quarterly Review_ No. 67, Kelly's _Reminiscences_.

[264] 2 _Henry IV_., Act III. Sc. I, slightly altered.

[265] [Mrs. Brown's Lodgings, No. 6 North St. David Street.]

[266] This is the opening couplet of a German trooper's song, alluded to
in _Life_, vol. ii. p. 13. The literal translation is:--

  "The day of departure is come;
  Heavy lies it on the hearts--heavy."--J.G.L.



[267] Scott had written:--"and yet to part with the companion of twenty
years just six," and had then deleted the three words, "years just six,"
and written "nine" above them. It looks as if he had meant at first to
refer to the change in his fortunes, "just six" MONTHS before, and had
afterwards thought it better to refrain. This would account for a
certain obscurity of meaning.

[268] _As You Like It_, Act II. Sc. 4.

[269] Cicero, _de Orat._ ii. p. 346.--J.G.L.

[270] Walter Scott Lockhart, died at Versailles in 1853, and was buried
in the Cemetery of Notre-Dame there.

[271] The Rev. Edward Bannerman Ramsay, A.M., St. John's College,
Cambridge, incumbent St. John's, Edinburgh, afterwards Dean of the
Diocese in the Scots Episcopal Church, and still more widely known as
the much-loved "Dean Ramsay," author of _Reminiscences of Scottish Life
and Character_. This venerable Scottish gentleman was for many years the
delight of all who had the privilege of knowing him. He died at the age
of eighty-three in his house, 23 Ainslie Place, Edinburgh, Dec. 27th,
1872.

[272] See _Life_, vol. iv. p. 2.

[273] Mr. Skene has preserved the following note written on this
day:--"I take the advantage of Mr. Ramsay's return to Edinburgh to
answer your kind letter. It would have done no good to have brought you
here when I could not have enjoyed your company, and there were enough
friends here to ensure everything being properly adjusted. Anne,
contrary to a natural weakness of temper, is quite quiet and resigned to
her distress, but has been visited by many fainting fits, the effect, I
am told, of weakness, over-exertion, and distress of mind. Her brothers
are both here--Walter having arrived from Ireland yesterday in time to
assist at the _munus inane_; their presence will do her much good, but I
cannot think of leaving her till Monday next, nor could I do my brethren
much good by coming to town, having still that stunned and giddy feeling
which great calamities necessarily produce. It will soon give way to my
usual state of mind, and my friends will not find me much different from
what I have usually been.

"Mr. Ramsay, who I find is a friend of yours, appears an excellent young
man.--My kind love to Mrs. Skene, and am always, yours truly,

"WALTER SCOTT. ABBOTSFORD, _23d May_."



[274] _The Highland Widow_, Waverley Novels, vol. xli.

[275] See February 10, 1826.

[276] This excellent philosophical song appears to have been famous in
the sixteenth century.--Percy's _Reliques_, vol. i. 307.--J.G.L.

[277] See June 2.




JUNE.


_June_ 1.--Yesterday I also finished a few trifling memoranda on a book
called _The Omen_, at Blackwood's request. There is something in the
work which pleases me, and the style is good, though the story is not
artfully conducted. I dined yesterday in family with Skene, and had a
visit from Lord Chief-Commissioner; we met as mourners under a common
calamity. There is something extremely kind in his disposition.

Sir R. D[undas] offers me three days of the country next week, which
tempts me strongly were it but the prospect of seeing Anne. But I think
I must resist and say with Tilburina,

    "Duty, I'm all thine own."[278]

If I do this I shall deserve a holiday about the 15th June, and I think
it is best to wait till then.

_June_ 2.--A pleasant letter from Sophia, poor girl; all doing well
there, for which God be praised.

I wrote a good task yesterday, five pages, which is nearly double the
usual stint.

I am settled that I will not go to Abbotsford till to-morrow fortnight.

I might have spared myself the trouble of my self-denial, for go I
cannot, Hamilton having a fit of gout.

Gibson seems in high spirits on the views I have given to him on the
nature of Constable and Co.'s claim. It amounts to this, that being no
longer accountable as publishers, they cannot claim the character of
such, or plead upon any claim arising out of the contracts entered into
while they held that capacity.

_June_ 3.--I was much disturbed this morning by bile and its
consequences, and lost so much sleep that I have been rather late in
rising by way of indemnification. I must go to the map and study the
Italian campaigns instead of scribbling.

_June_ 4.--I wrote a good task yesterday, and to-day a great one, scarce
stirring from the desk the whole day, except a few minutes when Lady Rae
called. I was glad to see my wife's old friend, with whom in early life
we had so many liaisons. I am not sure it is right to work so hard; but
a man must take himself, as well as other people, when he is in the
humour. A man will do twice as much at one time and in half the time,
and twice as well as he will be able to do at another. People are always
crying out about method, and in some respects it is good, and shows to
great advantage among men of business, but I doubt if men of method, who
can lay aside or take up the pen just at the hour appointed, will ever
be better than poor creatures. Lady L[ouisa] S[tuart] used to tell me of
Mr. Hoole, the translator of _Tasso_ and _Ariosto_, and in that capacity
a noble transmuter of gold into lead, that he was a clerk in the India
House, with long ruffles and a snuff-coloured suit of clothes, who
occasionally visited her father [John, Earl of Bute]. She sometimes
conversed with him, and was amused to find that he _did_ exactly so many
couplets day by day, neither more or less; and habit had made it light
to him, however heavy it might seem to the reader.

Well, but if I lay down the pen, as the pain in my breast hints that I
should, what am I to do? If I think, why, I shall weep--and that's
nonsense; and I have no friend now--none--to receive my tediousness for
half-an-hour of the gloaming. Let me be grateful--I have good news from
Abbotsford.

_June_ 5.--Though this be Monday, I am not able to feague it away, as
Bayes says.[279] Between correcting proofs and writing letters, I have
got as yet but two pages written, and that with labour and a sensation
of pain in the chest. I may be bringing on some serious disease by
working thus hard; if I had once justice done to other folks, I do not
much care, only I would not like to suffer long pain. Harden made me a
visit. He argued with me that Lord M. affichéd his own importance, too
much at the election, and says Henry is anxious about it. I hinted to
him the necessity of counter-balancing it the next time, which will be
soon.

Thomson also called about the Bannatyne Club.

These two interruptions did me good, though I am still a poor wretch.

After all, I have fagged through six pages; and made poor Wurmser lay
down his sword on the glacis of Mantua--and my head aches--my eyes
ache--my back aches--so does my breast--and I am sure my heart aches,
and what can Duty ask more?

_June_ 6.--I arose much better this morning, having taken some medicine,
which has removed the strange and aching feeling in my back and breast.
I believe it is from the diaphragm; it must be looked to, however. I
have not yet breakfasted, yet have cleared half my day's work holding it
at the ordinary stint.

Worked hard. John Swinton, my kinsman, came to see me,--very kind and
affectionate in his manner; my heart always warms to that Swinton
connection, so faithful to old Scottish feelings. Harden was also with
me. I talked with him about what Lord M. did at the election; I find
that he disapproves--I see these visits took place on the 5th.

_June_ 7.--Again a day of hard work, only at half-past eight I went to
the Dean of Faculty's to a consultation about Constable,[280] and met
with said Dean and Mr. [J.S.] More and J. Gibson. I find they have as
high hope of success as lawyers ought to express; and I think I know how
our profession speak when sincere. I cannot interest myself deeply in
it. When I had come home from such a business, I used to carry the news
to poor Charlotte, who dressed her face in sadness or mirth as she saw
the news affect me; this hangs lightly about me. I had almost forgot the
appointment, if J.G. had not sent me a card, I passed a piper in the
street as I went to the Dean's and could not help giving him a shilling
to play _Pibroch a Donuil Dhu_ for luck's sake--what a child I am!

_June_ 8.--Bilious and headache this morning. A dog howl'd all night and
left me little sleep. Poor cur! I dare say he had his distresses, as I
have mine. I was obliged to make Dalgleish shut the windows when he
appeared at half-past six, as usual, and did not rise till nine, when
_me voici_. I have often deserved a headache in my younger days without
having one, and Nature is, I suppose, paying off old scores. Ay, but
then the want of the affectionate care that used to be ready, with
lowered voice and stealthy pace, to smooth the pillow--and offer
condolence and assistance,--gone--gone--for ever--ever--ever. Well,
there is another world, and we'll meet free from the mortal sorrows and
frailties which beset us here. Amen, so be it. Let me change the topic
with hand and head, and the heart must follow.

I think that sitting so many days and working so hard may have brought
on this headache. I must inflict a walk on myself to-day. Strange that
what is my delight in the country is _here_ a sort of penance! Well, but
now I think on it, I will go to the Chief-Baron and try to get his
Lordship's opinion about the question with Constable; if I carry it, as
there is, I trust, much hope I shall, Mr. Gibson says there will be
funds to divide 6s. in the pound, without counting upon getting anything
from Constable or Hurst, but sheer hard cash of my own. Such another
pull is possible, especially if _Boney_ succeeds, and the rogue had a
knack at success. Such another, I say, and we touch ground I believe,
for surely Constable, Robinson, etc., must pay something; the struggle
is worth waring[281] a headache upon.

I finished five pages to-day, headache, laziness, and all.

_June_ 9.--Corrected a stubborn proof this morning. These battles have
been the death of many a man--I think they will be mine. Well but it
clears to windward; so we will fag on.

Slept well last night. By the way, how intolerably selfish this Journal
makes me seem--so much attention to one's naturals and non-naturals!
Lord Mackenzie[282] called, and we had much chat about business. The
late regulations for preparing cases in the Outer-House do not work
well, and thus our old machinery, which was very indifferent, is
succeeded by a kind that will hardly move at all. Mackenzie says his
business is trebled, and that he cannot keep it up. I question whether
the extreme strictness of rules of court be advisable in practice they
are always evaded, upon an equitable showing. I do not, for instance,
lodge a paper _debito tempore_, and for an accident happening, perhaps
through the blunder of a Writer's apprentice, I am to lose my cause. The
penalty is totally disproportioned to the delict, and the consequence
is, that means are found out of evasion by legal fictions and the like.
The judges listen to these; they become frequent, and the rule of Court
ends by being a scarecrow merely. Formerly, delays of this kind were
checked by corresponding _amendes_. But the Court relaxed this petty
fine too often. Had they been more strict, and levied the mulct on the
agents, with _no recourse_ upon their clients, the abuse might have been
remedied. I fear the present rule is too severe to do much good.

One effect of running causes fast through the Courts below is, that they
go by scores to appeal, and Lord Gifford[283] has hitherto decided them
with such judgment, and so much rapidity, as to give great satisfaction.
The consequence will in time be, that the Scottish Supreme Court will be
in effect situated in London. Then down fall--as national objects of
respect and veneration--the Scottish Bench, the Scottish Bar, the
Scottish Law herself, and--and--"there is an end of an auld sang."[284]
Were I as I have been, I would fight knee-deep in blood ere it came to
that. But it is a catastrophe which the great course of events brings
daily nearer--

    "And who can help it, Dick?"

I shall always be proud of _Malachi_ as having headed back the Southron,
or helped to do so, in one instance at least.

_June_ 10.--This was an unusual teind-day at Court. In the morning and
evening I corrected proofs--four sheets in number; and I wrote my task
of three pages and a little more. Three pages a day will come, at
Constable's rate, to about £12,000 to £15,000 per year. They have sent
their claim; it does not frighten me a bit.

_June_ 11.--Bad dreams about poor Charlotte. Woke, thinking my old and
inseparable friend beside me; and it was only when I was fully awake
that I could persuade myself that she was dark, low, and distant, and
that my bed was widowed. I believe the phenomena of dreaming are in a
great measure occasioned by the _double touch_, which takes place when
one hand is crossed in sleep upon another. Each gives and receives the
impression of touch to and from the other, and this complicated
sensation our sleeping fancy ascribes to the agency of another being,
when it is in fact produced by our own limbs acting on each other. Well,
here goes--_incumbite remis_.

_June_ 12.--Finished volume third of _Napoleon_. I resumed it on the 1st
of June, the earliest period that I could bend my mind to it after my
great loss. Since that time I have lived, to be sure, the life of a
hermit, except attending the Court five days in the week for about three
hours on an average. Except at that time I have been reading or writing
on the subject of _Boney_, and have finished last night, and sent to
printer this morning the last sheets of fifty-two written since 1st
June. It is an awful screed; but grief makes me a house-keeper, and to
labour is my only resource. Ballantyne thinks well of the work--very
well, but I shall [expect] inaccuracies. An' it were to do again, I
would get some one to look it over. But who could that some one be? Whom
is there left of human race that I could hold such close intimacy with?
No one. "_Tanneguy du Châtel, ou es-tu!_"[285]. Worked five pages.

_June_ 13.--I took a walk out last evening after tea, and called on Lord
Chief-Commissioner and the Macdonald Buchanans, that kind and friendly
clan. The heat is very great, and the wrath of the bugs in proportion.
Two hours last night I was kept in an absolute fever. I must make some
arrangement for winter. Great pity my old furniture was sold in such a
hurry! The wiser way would have been to have let the house furnished.
But it's all one in the Greek.

"_Peccavi, peccavi, dies quidem sine lineâ!_" I walked to make calls;
got cruelly hot; drank ginger-beer; wrote letters. Then as I was going
to dinner, enter a big splay-footed, trifle-headed, old pottering
minister, who came to annoy me about a claim which one of his
parishioners has to be Earl of Annandale, and which he conceits to be
established out of the Border Minstrelsy. He mentioned a curious
thing--that three brothers of the Johnstone family, on whose descendants
the male representative of these great Border chiefs devolved, were
forced to fly to the north in consequence of their feuds with the
Maxwells, and agreed to change their names. They slept on the side of
the Soutra Hills, and asking a shepherd the name of the place, agreed in
future to call themselves Sowtra or Sowter Johnstones. The old
pudding-headed man could not comprehend a word I either asked him or
told him, and maundered till I wished him in the Annandale
beef-stand.[286] Mr. Gibson came in after tea, and we talked business.
Then I was lazy and stupid, and dosed over a book instead of writing. So
on the whole, _Confiteor, confiteor, culpa mea, culpa mea_!

_June_ 14.--In the morning I began with a page and a half before
breakfast. This is always the best way. You stand like a child going to
be bathed, shivering and shaking till the first pitcherful is flung
about your ears, and then are as blithe as a water-wagtail. I am just
come home from Parliament House; and now, my friend _Nap._, have at you
with a down-right blow! Methinks I would fain make peace with my
conscience by doing six pages to-night. Bought a little bit of Gruyère
cheese, instead of our domestic choke-dog concern. When did I ever
purchase anything for my own eating? But I will say no more of that. And
now to the bread-mill.

_June_ 15.--I laboured all the evening, but made little way. There were
many books to consult; and so all I could really do was to make out my
task of three pages. I will try to make up the deficit of Tuesday to-day
and to-morrow. Letters from Walter--all well. A visit yesterday from
Charles Sharpe.

_June_ 16.--Yesterday sate in the Court till nearly four. I had, of
course, only time for my task. I fear I will have little more to-day,
for I have accepted to dine at Hector's. I got, yesterday, a present of
two engravings from Sir Henry Raeburn's portrait of me, which (poor
fellow!) was the last he ever painted, and certainly not his worst.[287]
I had the pleasure to give one to young Mr. Davidoff for his uncle, the
celebrated Black Captain of the campaign of 1812. Curious that he should
be interested in getting the resemblance of a person whose mode of
attaining some distinction has been very different. But I am sensible,
that if there be anything good about my poetry or prose either, it is a
hurried frankness of composition which pleases soldiers, sailors, and
young people of bold and active disposition. I have been no sigher in
shades--no writer of

    "Songs and sonnets and rustical roundelays,
    Framed on fancies, and whistled on reeds."[288]

[_Abbotsford, Saturday_,] _June_ 17.--Left Edinburgh to-day after
Parliament House to come [here]. My two girls met me at Torsonce, which
was a pleasant surprise, and we returned in the sociable all together.
Found everything right and well at Abbotsford under the new regime. I
again took possession of the family bedroom and my widowed couch. This
was a sore trial, but it was necessary not to blink such a resolution.
Indeed, I do not like to have it thought that there is any way in which
I can be beaten.[289]

_June_ 18.--This morning wrote till half-twelve--good day's work--at
_Canongate Chronicles_. Methinks I can make this work answer. Then drove
to Huntly Burn and called at Chiefswood. Walked home. The country crying
for rain; yet on the whole the weather delicious, dry, and warm, with a
fine air of wind. The young woods are rising in a kind of profusion I
never saw elsewhere. Let me once clear off these encumbrances, and they
shall wave broader and deeper yet. But to attain this I _must work_.

Wrought very fair accordingly till two; then walked; after dinner out
again with the girls. Smoked two cigars, first time these two months.

_June_ 19.--Wrought very fair indeed, and the day being scorching we
dined _al fresco_ in the hall among the armour, and went out early in
the evening. Walked to the lake and back again by the Marle pool; very
delightful evening.

_June_ 20.--This is also a hard-working day. Hot weather is favourable
for application, were it not that it makes the composer sleepy. Pray God
the reader may not partake the sensation! But days of hard work make
short journals. To-day we again dine in the hall, and drive to Ashestiel
in the evening _pour prendre le frais_.

_June_ 21--We followed the same course we proposed. For a party of
pleasure I have attended to business well. Twenty pages of Croftangry,
five printed pages each, attest my diligence, and I have had a
delightful variation by the company of the two Annes. Regulated my
little expenses here.

[_Edinburgh_,] _June_ 22.--Returned to my Patmos. Heard good news from
Lockhart. Wife well, and John Hugh better. He mentions poor Southey
testifying much interest for me, even to tears. It is odd--am I so
hard-hearted a man? I could not have wept for him, though in distress I
would have gone any length to serve him. I sometimes think I do not
deserve people's good opinion, for certainly my feelings are rather
guided by reflection than impulse. But everybody has his own mode of
expressing interest, and mine is stoical even in bitterest grief. _Agere
atque pati, Romanum est._ I hope I am not the worse for wanting the
tenderness that I see others possess, and which is so amiable. I think
it does not cool my wish to be of use where I can. But the truth is, I
am better at enduring or acting than at consoling. From childhood's
earliest hour my heart rebelled against the influence of external
circumstances in myself and others. _Non est tanti!_

To-day I was detained in the Court from half-past ten till near four;
yet I finished and sent off a packet to Cadell, which will finish
one-third of the _Chronicles_, vol. 1st.

Henry Scott came in while I was at dinner, and sat while I ate my
beef-steak. A gourmand would think me much at a loss, coming back to my
ploughman's meal of boiled beef and Scotch broth, from the rather
_recherché_ table at Abbotsford, but I have no philosophy in my
carelessness on that score. It is natural--though I am no ascetic, as my
father was.

_June_ 23.--The heat tremendous, and the drought threatening the hay and
barley crop. Got from the Court at half-twelve, and walked to the
extremity of Heriot Row to see poor Lady Don; left my card as she does
not receive any one. I am glad this painful meeting is adjourned. I
received to-day £10 from Blackwood for the article on _The Omen_. Time
was I would not have taken these small tithes of mint and cummin, but
scornful dogs will eat dirty puddings, and I, with many depending on me,
must do the best I can with my time--God help me!

[_Blair-Adam_,] _June_ 24.--Left Edinburgh yesterday after the Court,
half-past twelve, and came over here with the Lord Chief-Baron and
William Clerk, to spend as usual a day or two at Blair-Adam. In general,
this is a very gay affair. We hire a light coach-and-four, and scour the
country in every direction in quest of objects of curiosity. But the
Lord Chief-Commissioner's family misfortunes and my own make our holiday
this year of a more quiet description than usual, and a sensible degree
of melancholy hangs on the reunion of our party. It was wise, however,
not to omit it, for to slacken your hold on life in any agreeable point
of connection is the sooner to reduce yourself to the indifference and
passive vegetation of old age.

_June_ 25.--Another melting day; thermometer at 78° even here. 80° was
the height yesterday at Edinburgh. If we attempt any active proceeding
we dissolve ourselves into a dew. We have lounged away the morning
creeping about the place, sitting a great deal, and walking as little as
might be on account of the heat.

Blair-Adam has been successively in possession of three generations of
persons attached to and skilled in the art of embellishment, and may be
fairly taken as a place where art and taste have done a great deal to
improve nature. A long ridge of varied ground sloping to the foot of the
hill called Benarty, and which originally was of a bare, mossy, boggy
character, has been clothed by the son, father, and grandfather; while
the undulations and hollows, which seventy or eighty years since must
have looked only like wrinkles in the black morasses, being now drained
and limed, are skirted with deep woods, particularly of spruce, which
thrives wonderfully, and covered with excellent grass. We drove in the
droskie and walked in the evening.

_June_, 26.--Another day of unmitigated heat; thermometer 82; must be
higher in Edinburgh, where I return to-night, when the decline of the
sun makes travelling practicable. It will be well for my work to be
there--not quite so well for me; there is a difference between the
clean, nice arrangement of Blair-Adam and Mrs. Brown's accommodations,
though he who is insured against worse has no right to complain of them.
But the studious neatness of poor Charlotte has perhaps made me
fastidious. She loved to see things clean, even to Oriental
scrupulosity. So oddly do our deep recollections of other kinds
correspond with the most petty occurrences of our life.

Lord Chief-Baron told us a story of the ruling passion strong in death.
A Master in Chancery was on his deathbed--a very wealthy man. Some
occasion of great urgency occurred in which it was necessary to make an
affidavit, and the attorney, missing one or two other Masters, whom he
inquired after, ventured to ask if Mr. ------ would be able to receive
the deposition. The proposal seemed to give him momentary strength; his
clerk sent for, and the oath taken in due form, the Master was lifted up
in bed, and with difficulty subscribed the paper; as he sank down again,
he made a signal to his clerk--"Wallace."--"Sir?"--"Your
ear--lower--lower. Have you got the _half-crown_?" He was dead before
morning.

[_Edinburgh_,] _June_ 27.--Returned to Edinburgh late last night, and
had a most sweltering night of it. This day also cruel hot. However, I
made a task or nearly so, and read a good deal about the Egyptian
Expedition. Had comfortable accounts of Anne, and through her of Sophia.
Dr. Shaw doubts if anything is actually the matter with poor Johnnie's
back. I hope the dear child will escape deformity, and the infirmities
attending that helpless state. I have myself been able to fight up very
well, notwithstanding my lameness, but it has cost great efforts, and I
am besides very strong. Dined with Colin Mackenzie; a fine family all
growing up about him, turning men and women, and treading fast on our
heels. Some thunder and showers which I fear will be but partial.
Hot--hot--hot.

_June_, 28.--Another hot morning, and something like an idle day, though
I have read a good deal. But I have slept also, corrected proofs, and
prepared for a great start, by filling myself with facts and ideas.

_June_ 29.--I walked out for an hour last night, and made one or two
calls--the evening was delightful--

    "Day its sultry fires had wasted,
      Calm and cool the moonbeam rose;
    Even a captive's bosom tasted
      Half oblivion of his woes."[290]

I wonder often how Tom Campbell, with so much real genius, has not
maintained a greater figure in the public eye than he has done of late.
The _Magazine_ seems to have paralysed him. The author, not only of the
_Pleasures of Hope_, but of _Hohenlinden, Lochiel_, etc., should have
been at the very top of the tree. Somehow he wants audacity, fears the
public, and, what is worse, fears the shadow of his own reputation. He
is a great corrector too, which succeeds as ill in composition as in
education. Many a clever boy is flogged into a dunce, and many an
original composition corrected into mediocrity. Yet Tom Campbell ought
to have done a great deal more. His youthful promise was great. John
Leyden introduced me to him. They afterwards quarrelled. When I repeated
_Hohenlinden_ to Leyden, he said, "Dash it, man, tell the fellow that I
hate him, but, dash him, he has written the finest verses that have been
published these fifty years." I did mine errand as faithfully as one of
Homer's messengers, and had for answer, "Tell Leyden that I detest him,
but I know the value of his critical approbation." This feud was
therefore in the way of being taken up. "When Leyden comes back from
India," said Tom Campbell, "what cannibals he will have eaten and what
tigers he will have torn to pieces!"

Gave a poor poetess £1. Gibson writes me that £2300 is offered for the
poor house; it is worth £300 more, but I will not oppose my own opinion,
or convenience to good and well-meant counsel: so farewell, poor No. 39.
What a portion of my life has been spent there! It has sheltered me from
the prime of life to its decline; and now I must bid good-bye to it. I
have bid good-bye to my poor wife, so long its courteous and kind
mistress,--and I need not care about the empty rooms; yet it gives me a
turn. I have been so long a citizen of Edinburgh, now an indweller only.
Never mind; all in the day's work.

J. Ballantyne and B. Cadell dined with me, and, as Pepys would say, all
was very handsome. Drank amongst us one bottle of champagne, one of
claret, a glass or two of port, and each a tumbler of whisky toddy. J.B.
had courage to drink his with _hot_ water; mine was iced.

_June_ 30.--Here is another dreadful warm day, fit for nobody but the
flies. And then one is confined to town.

Yesterday I agreed to let Cadell have the new work,[291] edition 1500,
he paying all charges, and paying also £500--two hundred and fifty at
Lammas, to pay J. Gibson money advanced on the passage of young Walter,
my nephew, to India. It is like a thorn in one's eye this sort of debt,
and Gibson is young in business, and somewhat involved in my affairs
besides. Our plan is, that this same _Miscellany_ or _Chronicle_ shall
be committed quietly to the public, and we hope it will attract
attention. If it does not, we must turn public attention to it
ourselves. About one half of vol. i. is written, and there is worse
abomination, or I mistake the matter.

I was detained in Court till four; dreadfully close, and obliged to
drink water for refreshment, which formerly I used to scorn, even on the
moors, with a burning August sun, the heat of exercise, and a hundred
springs gushing around me.

Corrected proofs, etc., on my return. I think I have conquered the
trustees' objections to carry on the small edition of novels. Got
Cadell's letter about the _Chronicle_.

FOOTNOTES:

[278] Sheridan's _Critic_, Act IV. Sc. 2.

[279] Buckingham's _Rehearsal_.--The expression "To Feague" does not
occur in the first edition, where the passage stands thus:--

"_Phys._--When a knotty point comes, I lay my head close to it, with a
pipe of tobacco in my mouth and then _whew_ it away. I' faith.

"_Bayes_.--I do just so, i' gad, always." Act II. Sc. 4.

In some subsequent editions the words are:--"I lay my head close to it
with a _snuff-box in my hand_, and I _feague_ it away. I' faith."

I am indebted to Dr. Murray for this reference, which he kindly
furnished me with from the materials collected for his great English
Dictionary.

[280] This alludes to the claim advanced by the creditors of Constable
and Co. to the copyright of _Woodstock_ and the _Life of Napoleon_. The
Dean of the Faculty of Advocates was at that time George Cranstoun,
afterwards a judge on the Scottish Bench under the title; of Lord
Corehouse, from 1826 until 1839, when he retired; he died 1850.

[281] _i.e._ spending.

[282] The eldest son of "_The Man of Feeling_." He had been a judge from
1822; he died at the age of seventy-four in 1851.

[283] Baron Gifford died a few months later, viz., in Sept. 1826; he had
been Attorney-General in 1819, and Chief-Justice in 1824. Lord and Lady
Gifford had visited Abbotsford in the autumn of 1825.

[284] Speech of Lord Chancellor Seafield on the ratification of the
Scottish Union.--See _Miscell. Prose Works_, vol. xxv. p. 93.

[285] See Moréri's _Dictionnaire_, Art. "Tanneguy du Châtel."

[286] An example of Scott's wonderful patience, and his power of
utilising hints gathered from the most unpromising materials. Apropos of
this Mr. Skene relates:--"In one of our frequent walks to the pier of
Leith, to which the freshness of the sea breeze offered a strong
inducement to those accustomed to pass a few of the morning hours within
the close and impure atmosphere of the Court of Session, I happened to
meet with, and to recognise, the Master of a vessel in which I had
sailed in the Mediterranean. Our recognition of each other seemed to
give mutual satisfaction, as the cordial grasp of the seaman's hard fist
effectually indicated. It was some years since we had been shipmates, he
had since visited almost every quarter of the globe, but he shook his
head, and looked serious when he came to mention his last trip. He had
commanded a whaler, and having been for weeks exposed to great stress of
weather in the polar regions, finally terminated in the total loss of
his vessel, with most of her equipage, in the course of a dark
tempestuous night. When thrown on her beam-ends, my friend had been
washed overboard, and in his struggles to keep himself above water had
got hold of a piece of ice, on the top of which he at length succeeded
in raising himself--'and there I was, sir, on a cursed dark dirty night,
squatted on a round lump of floating ice, for all the world like a
tea-table adrift in the middle of a stormy sea, without being able to
see whether there was any hope within sight, and having enough ado to
hold on, cold as my seat was, with sometimes one end of me in the water,
and sometimes the other, as the ill-fashioned crank thing kept whirling,
and whomeling about all night. However, praised be God, daylight had not
been long in, when a boat's crew on the outlook hove in sight, and
taking me for a basking seal, and maybe I was not unlike that same, up
they came of themselves, for neither voice nor hand had I to signal
them, and if they lost their blubber, faith, sir, they did get a willing
prize on board; so, after just a little bit gliff of a prayer for the
mercy that sent them to my help, I soon came to myself again, and now
that I am landed safe and sound, I am walking about, ye see, like a
gentleman, till I get some new craft to try the trade again.'--Sir
Walter, who was leaning on my arm during this narrative, had not taken
any share in the dialogue, and kept gazing to seaward, with his usual
heavy, absorbed expression, and only joined in wishing the seaman better
success in his next trip as we parted. However, the detail had by no
means escaped his notice, but dropping into the fertile soil of his
mind, speedily yielded fruit, quite characteristic of his habits. We
happened that evening to dine in company together; I was not near Sir
Walter at table, but in the course of the evening my attention was
called to listen to a narrative with which he was entertaining those
around him, and he seemed as usual to have excited the eager interest of
his hearers. The commencement of the story I had not heard, but soon
perceived that a shipwreck was the theme, which he described with all
the vivid touches of his fancy, marshalling the incidents and striking
features of the situation with a degree of dexterity that seemed to
bring all the horrors of a polar storm home to every one's mind, and
although it occurred to me that our rencontre in the morning with the
shipwrecked Whaler might have recalled a similar story to his
recollection, it was not until he came to mention _the tea-table of ice_
that I recognised the identity of my friend's tale, which had luxuriated
to such an extent in the fertile soil of the poet's imagination, as to
have left the original germ in comparative insignificance. He cast a
glance towards me at the close, and observed, with a significant nod,
'You see, you did not hear one-half of that honest seaman's story this
morning.' It was such slender hints, which in the common intercourse of
life must have hourly dropped on the soil of his retentive memory, that
fed the exuberance of Sir Walter's invention, and supplied the seemingly
inexhaustible stream of fancy, from which he drew forth at pleasure the
ground-work of romance."--_Reminiscences_.

[287] Painted for Lord Montagu in 1822.--See _Life_, vol. vii. p. 13.

Raeburn apparently executed two "half lengths" of Scott almost identical
at this time, giving Lord Montagu his choice. The picture chosen
remained at Ditton, near Windsor, until 1845, when at Lord Montagu's
death it became the property of his son-in-law, the Earl of Home, and it
is now (1889) at the Hirsel, Coldstream. The engraving referred to was
made from the replica, which remained in the artist's possession, by Mr.
Walker, and published in 1826. Sir Henry Raeburn died in July 1823, and
I do not know what became of the original, which may be identified by an
official chain round the neck, not introduced in the Montagu picture.

[288] Song of _The Hunting of the Hare_.--J.G.L.

[289] This entry reminds one of Hannah More's account of Mrs. Garrick's
conduct after her husband's funeral. "She told me," says Mrs. More,
"that she prayed with great composure, then went and kissed the dear
bed, and got into it with a sad pleasure."--See _Memoirs of Mrs. More_,
vol. i. p. 135.--J.G.L.

[290] Campbell's _Turkish Lady_, slightly altered. The poet was then
editor of the _New Monthly Magazine_, but he soon gave it up.--J.G.L.

[291] Viz.: the first series of _Chronicles of the Canongate_, which was
published in 1827. The title originally proposed was _The Canongate
Miscellany_ or _Traditions of the Sanctuary_.

_Woodstock_ had just been launched under the following
title:--_Woodstock, or the Cavalier; a Tale of the Year Sixteen Hundred
and Fifty-one_, by the author of _Waverley, Tales of the Crusaders_,
etc. "He was a very perfect gentle knight" (Chaucer). Edinburgh: Printed
for Archibald Constable and Co., Edinburgh; and Longman, Rees, Orme,
Brown, and Green, London, 1826. (At the end) Edinburgh: Printed by James
Ballantyne and Co. 3 vols. post 8vo.




JULY.


[_Edinburgh_,] _July 1st._--Another sunny day. This threatens absolutely
Syrian drought. As the Selkirk election comes on Monday, I go out to-day
to Abbotsford, and carry young Davidoff and his tutor with me, to see
our quiet way of managing the choice of a national representative.

I wrote a page or two last night slumbrously.

[_Abbotsford_,] _July_ 2.--Late at Court. Got to Abbotsford last night
with Count Davidoff about eight o'clock. I worked a little this morning,
then had a long and warm walk. Mr. and Mrs. Hamilton from Chiefswood,
the present inhabitants of Lockhart's cottage, dined with us, which made
the society pleasant. He is a fine, soldierly-looking man[292]--though
affected with paralysis--his wife a sweet good-humoured little woman. He
is supposed to be a writer in Blackwood's _Magazine_. Since we were to
lose the Lockharts, we could scarce have had more agreeable folks.

At Selkirk, where Borthwickbrae was elected with the usual unanimity of
the Forest freeholders. This was a sight to my young Muscovite. We
walked in the evening to the lake.

_July_ 5.--Still very hot, but with thunder showers. Wrote till
breakfast, then walked and signed the death-warrant of a number of old
firs at Abbotstown. I hope their deaths will prove useful. Their lives
are certainly not ornamental. Young Mr. Davidoff entered upon the cause
of the late discontents in Russia, which he imputes to a deep-seated
Jacobin conspiracy to overthrow the state and empire and establish a
government by consuls.

[_Edinburgh_,] _July_ 6.--Returned last night with my frozen Muscovites
to the Capital, and suffered as usual from the incursions of the black
horse during the night. It was absolute fever. A bunch of letters, but
little interesting. Mr. Barry Cornwall[293] writes to condole with me. I
think our acquaintance scarce warranted this; but it is well meant and
modestly done. I cannot conceive the idea of forcing myself on strangers
in distress, and I have half a mind to turn sharp round on some of my
consolers. Came home from Court. R.P. Gillies called; he is writing a
satire. He has a singular talent of aping the measure and tone of Byron,
and this poem goes to the tune of _Don Juan_, but it is the Champagne
after it has stood two days with the cork drawn. Thereafter came Charles
K. Sharpe and Will Clerk, as Robinson sayeth, to my exceeding
refreshment.[294] And last, not least, Mr. Jollie, one of the triumvirs
who manage my poor matters. He consents to going on with the small
edition of novels, which he did not before comprehend. All this has
consumed the day, but we will make up tide-way presently. I must dress
to go to Lord Medwyn[295] to dinner, and it is near time.

_July_ 7.--Coming home from Lord Medwyn's last night I fell in with
Willie Clerk, and went home to drink a little shrub and water, over
which we chatted of old stories until half-past eleven. This morning I
corrected two proofs of C[roftangr]y, which is getting on. But there
must be a little check with the throng of business at the close of the
session. D---n the session! I wish it would close its eyes for a
century. It is too bad to be kept broiling here; but, on the other
hand, we must have the instinctive gratitude of the Laird of M'Intosh,
who was for the King that gave M'Intosh half-a-guinea the day and
half-a-guinea the morn. So I retract my malediction.

Received from Blackwood to account sales of _Malachi_ £72 with some odd
shillings. This was for copies sold to Banks. The cash comes far from
ill-timed, having to clear all odds and ends before I leave Edinburgh.
This will carry me on tidily till 25th, when precepts become payable.
Well! if _Malachi_ did me some mischief, he must also contribute _quodam
modo_ to my comfort.

_July_ 8.--Wrote a good task this morning. I may be mistaken; but I do
think the tale of Elspat McTavish[296] in my bettermost manner--but J.B.
roars for chivalry. He does not quite understand that everything may be
overdone in this world, or sufficiently estimate the necessity of
novelty. The Highlanders have been off the field now for some time.

Returning from Court, looked into a show of wild beasts, and saw Nero
the great lion, whom they had the cruelty to bait with bull-dogs,
against whom the noble creature disdained to exert his strength. He was
lying like a prince in a large cage, where you might be admitted if you
wish. I had a month's mind--- but was afraid of the newspapers; I could
be afraid of nothing else, for never did a creature seem more gentle and
yet majestic--I longed to caress him. Wallace, the other lion, born in
Scotland, seemed much less trustworthy. He handled the dogs as his
namesake did the southron.

Enter a confounded Dousterswivel, called Burschal, or some such name,
patronised by John Lockhart, teacher of German and learner of English.

He opened the trenches by making me a present of a German work called
_Der Bibelische Orient_, then began to talk of literature at large; and
display his own pretensions. Asked my opinion of Gray as a poet, and
wished me to subscribe an attestation of his own merits for the purpose
of getting him scholars. As I hinted my want of acquaintance with his
qualifications, I found I had nearly landed myself in a proof, for he
was girding up his loins to repeated thundering translations by himself
into German, Hebrew, until, thinking it superfluous to stand on very
much ceremony with one who used so little with me, hinted at letters to
write, and got him to translate himself elsewhere.

Saw a good house in Brunswick Street, which I liked. This evening supped
with Thomas Thomson about the affairs of the Bannatyne. There was the
Dean, Will Clerk, John Thomson, young Smythe of Methven; very pleasant.

_July_ 9.--Rather slumbrous to-day from having sat up till twelve last
night. We settled, or seemed to settle, on an election for the Bannatyne
Club. There are people who would wish to confine it much to one party.
But those who were together last night saw it in the true and liberal
point of view, as a great national institution, which may do much good
in the way of publishing our old records, providing we do not fall into
the usual habit of antiquarians, and neglect what is useful for things
that are merely curious. Thomson is a host for such an undertaking. I
wrote a good day's work at the Canongate matter, notwithstanding the
intervention of two naps. I get sleepy oftener than usual. It is the
weather I suppose--_Naboclish!_[297] I am near the end of the first
volume, and every step is one out of difficulty.

_July_ 10.--Slept too long this morning. It was eight before I
rose--half-past eight ere I came into the parlour. Terry and J.
Ballantyne dined with me yesterday, and I suppose the wassail, though
there was little enough of it, had stuck to my pillow.

This morning I was visited by a Mr. Lewis, a smart Cockney, whose object
is to amend the handwriting. He uses as a mechanical aid a sort of
puzzle of wire and ivory, which is put upon the fingers to keep them in
the desired position, like the muzzle on a dog's nose to make him bear
himself right in the field. It is ingenious, and may be useful. If the
man comes here, as he proposes, in winter, I will take lessons. Bear
witness, good reader, that if W.S. writes a cramp hand, as is the case,
he is desirous to mend it.

Dined with John Swinton _en famille_. He told me an odd circumstance.
Coming from Berwickshire in the mail coach he met with a passenger who
seemed more like a military man than anything else. They talked on all
sorts of subjects, at length on politics. _Malachi's_ letters were
mentioned, when the stranger observed they were much more seditious than
some expressions for which he had three or four years ago been nearly
sent to Botany Bay. And perceiving John Swinton surprised at this
avowal, he added, "I am Kinloch of Kinloch." This gentleman had got
engaged in the radical business (the only real gentleman by the way who
did), and harangued the weavers of Dundee with such emphasis that he
would have been tried and sent to Botany Bay had he not fled abroad. He
was outlawed, and only restored to his status on a composition with
Government. It seems to have escaped Mr. Kinloch that the conduct of a
man who places a lighted coal in the middle of combustibles, and upon
the floor, is a little different from that of one who places the same
quantity of burning fuel in a fire-grate![298]

_July_ 11.--The last day of the session, and as toilsome a one as I ever
saw. There were about 100 or 120 cases on the roll, and most of them of
an incidental character, which gives us Clerks the greatest trouble, for
it is the grasshopper that is a burthen to us. Came home about four,
tired and hungry. I wrought little or none; indeed I could not, having
books and things to pack. Went in the evening to sup with John
Murray,[299] where I met Will Clerk, Thomson, Henderland, and Charles
Stuart Blantyre, and had of course a pleasant party. I came late home,
though, for me, and was not in bed till past midnight; it would not do
for me to do this often.

_July_ 12.--I have the more reason to eschew evening parties that I
slept two mornings till past eight; these vigils would soon tell on my
utility, as the divines call it, but this is the last day in town, and
the world shall be amended. I have been trying to mediate between the
unhappy R.P. G[illies] and his uncle Lord G. The latter talks like a man
of sense and a good relation, and would, I think, do something for
E.P.G., if he would renounce temporary expedients and bring his affairs
to a distinct crisis. But this E.P. will not hear of, but flatters
himself with ideas which seem to me quite visionary. I could make
nothing of him; but, I conclude, offended him by being of his uncle's
opinion rather than his, as to the mode of extricating his affairs.

I am to dine out to-day, and I would fain shirk and stay at home; never,
Shylock-like, had I less will to feasting forth, but I must go or be
thought sulky. Lord M. and Lady Abercromby called this morning, and a
world of people besides, among others honest Mr. Wilson, late of
Wilsontown, who took so much care of me at London, sending fresh eggs
and all sorts of good things. Well, I have dawdled and written letters
sorely against the grain all day. Also I have been down to see Will
Allan's picture of the Landing of Queen Mary, which he has begun in a
great style; also I have put my letters and papers to rights, which only
happens when I am about to move, and now, having nothing left to do, I
_must_ go and dress myself.

_July_ 13.--Dined yesterday with Lord Abercromby at a party he gave to
Lord Melville and some old friends, who formed the Contemporary Club.
Lord M. and I met with considerable feeling on both sides, and all our
feuds were forgotten and forgiven; I conclude so at least, because one
or two people, whom I know to be sharp observers of the weatherglass on
occasion of such squalls, have been earnest with me to meet Lord M. at
parties--which I am well assured they would not have been (had I been
Horace come to life again[300]) were they not sure the breeze was over.
For myself, I am happy that our usual state of friendship should be
restored, though I could not have _come down proud stomach_ to make
advances, which is, among friends, always the duty of the richer and
more powerful of the two.

To-day I leave Mrs. Brown's lodgings. Altogether I cannot complain, but
the insects were voracious, even until last night when the turtle-soup
and champagne ought to have made me sleep like a top. But I have done a
monstrous sight of work here notwithstanding the indolence of this last
week, which must and shall be amended.

    "So good-by, Mrs. Brown,
    I am going out of town,
    Over dale, over down,
    Where bugs bite not,
    Where lodgers fight not,
    Where below you chairmen drink not,
    Where beside you gutters stink not;
    But all is fresh, and clean, and gay,
    And merry lambkins sport and play,
    And they toss with rakes uncommonly short hay,
    Which looks as if it had been sown only the other day,
    And where oats are at twenty-five shillings a boll, they say,
    But all's one for that, since I must and will away."

_July_ 14, ABBOTSFORD.--Arrived here yesterday before five o'clock.
Anybody would think, from the fal-de-ral conclusion of my journal of
yesterday, that I left town in a very gay humour--_cujus contrarium
verum est_. But nature has given me a kind of buoyancy, I know not what
to call it, that mingles even with my deepest afflictions and most
gloomy hours. I have a secret pride--I fancy it will be so most truly
termed--which impels me to mix with my distresses strange snatches of
mirth "which have no mirth in them." In fact, the journey hither, the
absence of the affectionate friend that used to be my companion on the
journey, and many mingled thoughts of bitterness, have given me a fit of
the bile.

_July_ 15.--This day I did not attempt to work, but spent my time in the
morning in making the necessary catalogue and distribution of two or
three chests of books which I have got home from the binder, Niece Anne
acting as my Amanuensis. In the evening we drove to Huntly Burn, and
took tea there. Returning home we escaped a considerable danger. The
iron screw bolts of the driving-seat suddenly giving way, the servants
were very nearly precipitated upon the backs of the horses. Had it been
down hill instead of being on the level, the horses must have taken
fright, and the consequences might have been fatal. Indeed, they had
almost taken fright as it was, had not Peter Matheson,[301] who, in Mr.
Fag's phrase, I take to be, "the discreetest of whips,"[302] kept his
presence of mind, when losing his equilibrium, so that he managed to
keep the horses in hand until we all got out. I must say it is not the
first imminent danger on which I have seen Peter (my Automedon for near
twenty-five years) behave with the utmost firmness.

_July_ 16.--Very unsatisfactory to-day. Sleepy, stupid,
indolent--finished arranging the books, and after that was totally
useless--unless it can be called study that I slumbered for three or
four hours over a variorum edition of the Gill's-Hill's tragedy.[303]
Admirable recipe for low spirits--for, not to mention the brutality of
so extraordinary a murder, it led John Bull into one of his uncommon
fits of gambols, until at last he become so maudlin as to weep for the
pitiless assassin, Thurtell, and treasure up the leaves and twigs of the
hedge and shrubs in the fatal garden as valuable relics--nay, thronged
the minor theatres to see the very roan horse and yellow gig in which
the body was transported from one place to another. I have not stept
over the threshold to-day, so very stupid have I been.

_July_ 17.--_Desidiæ longum valedixi._ Our time is like our money. When
we change a guinea, the shillings escape as things of small account;
when we break a day by idleness in the morning, the rest of the hours
lose their importance in our eye. I set stoutly to work about seven this
morning to _Boney_--

    And long ere dinner-time, I have
      Full eight close pages wrote;
    What, Duty, hast thou now to crave?
      Well done, Sir Walter Scott!

_July_ 18.--This, as yesterday, has been a day of unremitting labour,
though I only got through half the quantity of manuscript, owing to
drowsiness, a most disarming annoyance. I walked a little before dinner
and after tea, but was unable to go with the girls and Charles to the
top of Cauldshiels Hill. I fear my walking powers are diminishing, but
why not? They have been wonderfully long efficient, all things
considered, only I fear I shall get fat and fall into diseases. Well,
things must be as they may. Let us use the time and faculties which God
has left us, and trust futurity to his guidance. Amen.

This is the day of St. Boswell's Fair. That watery saint has for once
had a dry festival.

_July_ 19.--Wrote a page this morning, but no more. Corrected proofs
however, and went to Selkirk to hold Sheriff Court; this consumed the
forenoon. Colonel and Miss Ferguson, with Mr. and Mrs. Laidlaw, dined
and occupied the evening. The rain seemed to set in this night.

_July_ 20.--To-day rainy. A morning and forenoon of hard work. About
five pages, which makes up for yesterday's lee way. I am sadly tired
however. But as I go to Mertoun at four, and spend the night there, the
exertion was necessary.

_July_ 21.--To Mertoun we went accordingly. Lord and Lady Minto were
there, with part of their family, David Haliburton, etc., besides their
own large family. So my lodging was a little room which I had not
occupied since I was a bachelor, but often before in my frequent
intercourse with this kind and hospitable family. Feeling myself
returned to that celibacy, which renders many accommodations indifferent
which but lately were indispensable, my imagination drew a melancholy
contrast between the young man entering the world on fire for fame, and
restless in imagining means of coming by it, and the aged widower,
_blasé_ on the point of literary reputation, deprived of the social
comforts of a married state, and looking back to regret instead of
looking forward to hope. This brought bad sleep and unpleasing dreams.
But if I cannot hope to be what I have been, I will not, if I can help
it, suffer vain repining to make me worse than I may be.

We left Mertoun after breakfast, and the two Annes and I visited Lady
Raeburn at Lessudden. My Aunt is now in her ninetieth year--so clean,
so nice, so well arranged in every respect, that it makes old age
lovely. She talks both of late and former events with perfect possession
of her faculties, and has only failed in her limbs. A great deal of kind
feeling has survived, in spite of the frost of years.

Home to dinner, and worked all the afternoon among the Moniteurs--to
little purpose, for my principal acquisition was a headache. I wrote
nothing to-day but part of a trifle for _Blackwood_.

_July_ 22.--The same severe headache attends my poor pate. But I have
worked a good deal this morning, and will do more. I wish to have half
the volume sent into town on Monday if possible. It will be a royal
effort, and more than make up for the blanks of this week.

_July_ 23.--I wrote very hard this day, and attained page 40; 45 would
be more than half the volume. Colonel Russell came about one, and
carried me out a-walking, which I was all the better of. In the evening
we expected Terry and his wife, but they did not come, which makes me
fear she may be unwell again.

_July_ 24.--A great number of proof-sheets to revise and send off, and
after that I took a fancy to give a more full account of the
Constitution framed by Sieyès--a complicated and ingenious web; it is
but far too fine and critical to be practically useful.

_July_ 25.--Terry and wife arrived yesterday. Both very well. At
dinner-time to-day came Dr. Jamieson[304] of the Scottish Dictionary, an
excellent good man, and full of auld Scottish cracks, which amuse me
well enough, but are _caviare_ to the young people. A little prolix and
heavy is the good Doctor; somewhat prosaic, and accustomed to much
attention on the Sunday from his congregation, and I hope on the six
other days from his family. So _he will_ demand full attention from all
and sundry before he begins a story, and once begun there is no chance
of his ending.

_July_ 26.--This day went to Selkirk, and held a Court. The Doctor and
Terry chose to go with me. Captain and Mrs. Hamilton came to dinner.
Desperate warm weather! Little done in the literary way except sending
off proofs. Roup of standing corn, etc., went off very indifferently.
Letter from Ballantyne wanting me to write about absentees. But I have
enough to do without burning my fingers with politics.

_July_ 27.--Up and at it this morning, and finished four pages. An
unpleasant letter from London, as if I might be troubled by some of the
creditors there, when going to town to get materials for _Nap_. I have
no wish to go,--none at all. I would even like to put off my visit, so
far as John Lockhart and my daughter are concerned, and see them when
the meeting could be more pleasant. But then, having an offer to see the
correspondence from St. Helena, I can make no doubt that I ought to go.
However, if it is to infer any danger to my personal freedom, English
wind will not blow on me. It is monstrous hard to prevent me doing what
is certainly the best for all parties.

_July_ 28.--I am well-nigh choked with the sulphurous heat of the
weather--or I am unwell, for I perspire as if I had been walking hard,
and my hand is as nervous as a paralytic's. Read through and corrected
_St. Ronan's Well_. I am no judge, but I think the language of this
piece rather good. Then I must allow the fashionable portraits are not
the true thing. I am too much out of the way to see and remark the
ridiculous in society. The story is terribly contorted and unnatural,
and the catastrophe is melancholy, which should always be avoided. No
matter; I have corrected it for the press.[305]

The worthy Lexicographer left us to-day. Somewhat ponderous he is, poor
soul! but there are excellent things about him.

Action and Reaction--Scots proverb: "the unrest (_i.e._ pendulum) of a
clock _goes aye as far the ae gait as the t'other_."

Walter's account of his various quarters per last despatch. Query if
original:--

    "Loughrea is a blackguard place
      To Gort I give my curse;
    Athlone itself is bad enough,
      But Ballinrobe is worse.
    I cannot tell which is the worst,
      They're all so very bad;
    But of all towns I ever saw,
      Bad luck to Kinnegad."

Old Mr. Haliburton dined with us, also Colonel Russell. What a man for
fourscore or thereby is Old Haly--an Indian too. He came home in 1785.

_July_ 29.--Yesterday I wrought little, and light work, almost stifled
by the smothering heat. To-day I wrought about half task in the morning,
and, as a judgment on me I think for yesterday's sloth, Mr. H. stayed
unusually late in the forenoon. He is my friend, my father's friend, and
an excellent, sensible man besides; and a man of eighty and upwards may
be allowed to talk long, because in the nature of things he cannot have
long to talk. If I do a task to-day, I hope to send a good parcel on
Monday and keep tryst pretty well.

_July_ 30.--I did better yesterday than I had hoped for--four instead of
three pages, which, considering how my time was cut up by prolonged
morning lounging with friend Haly, was pretty fair. I wrote a good task
before eleven o'clock, but then my good friends twaddled and dawdled for
near two hours before they set off. The time devoted to hospitality,
especially to those whom I can reckon upon as sincere good friends, I
never grudge, but like to "welcome the coming, speed the parting
guest." By my will every guest should part at half-past ten, or arrange
himself to stay for the day.

We had a long walk in a sweltering hot day. Met Mr. Blackwood coming to
call, and walked him on with us, so blinked his visit--_gratias,
domine_!! Asked him for breakfast to-morrow to make amends. I rather
over-walked myself--the heat considered.

_July_ 31st_.--I corrected six sheets and sent them off, with eight
leaves of copy, so I keep forward pretty well. Blackwood the bookseller
came over from Chiefswood to breakfast, and this kept me idle till
eleven o'clock. At twelve I went out with the girls in the sociable, and
called on the family at Bemerside, on Dr.[306] and Mrs. Brewster, and
Mr. Bainbridge at Gattonside House. It was five ere we got home, so
there was a day dished, unless the afternoon does something for us. I am
keeping up pretty well, however, and, after all, visitors will come, and
calls must be made. I must not let Anne forego the custom of well-bred
society.

FOOTNOTES:

[292] Thomas Hamilton, Esq. (brother of Sir William Hamilton, the
Metaphysician), author of _Cyril Thornton_, _Men and Manners in
America_, _Annals of the Peninsular Campaign_, _etc._ Died in 1842.

[293] Bryan Waller Procter, author of _Dramatic Scenes, and other
Poems_, 1819. He died in London in 1874.

[294] A favourite expression of Scott's, from _Robinson Crusoe_.

[295] John Hay Forbes (Lord Medwyn from 1825 to 1852), second son of Sir
William Forbes of Pitsligo. Lord Medwyn died at the age of seventy-eight
in 1854.

[296] _The Highland Widow_.

[297] A favourite exclamation of Sir Walter's, which he had picked up on
his Irish tour, signifying "don't mind it"--_Na-bac-leis_. Compare Sir
Boyle Roche's dream that his head was cut off and placed upon a table:
"'_Quis separabit?_' says the head; '_Naboclish_,' says I, in the same
language."

[298] That Mr. Kinloch was not singular in his opinion has been shown by
the remarks made in the House of Commons (see _ante_, March 17). Lord
Cockburn in his _Trials for Sedition_ says, "With Botany Bay before him,
and money to make himself comfortable in Paris, George Kinloch would
have been an idiot if he had stayed." Mr. Kinloch had just returned to
Scotland.

[299] His neighbour, John Archibald Murray, then living at 122 George
Street.--See p. 133.

[300] See Molière's _l'École des Femmes_.

[301] In 1827 Scott was one day heard saying, as he saw Peter guiding
the plough on the haugh:--"Egad, auld Pepe's whistling at his darg: if
things get round with me, easy will be his cushion!" Old Peter lived
until he was eighty-four. He died at Abbotsford in 1854, where he had
been well cared for, respected, and beloved by all the members of the
family since Sir Walter's death.

[302] Sheridan's _Rivals_, Act II. Sc. 1.

[303] The murder of Weare by Thurtell and Co., at Gill's-Hill in
Hertfordshire (1824). Sir Walter collected printed trials with great
assiduity, and took care always to have the contemporary ballads and
prints bound up with them. He admired particularly this verse of Mr.
Hook's broadside--

  "They cut his throat from ear to ear,
  His brains they battered in;
  His name was Mr. William Weare,
  He dwelt in Lyon's Inn."

--J.G.L.

[304] Dr. John Jamieson, formerly minister to a Secession congregation
in Forfar, removed to a like charge in Edinburgh in 1795, where he
officiated for forty-three years; he died in his house in 4 George
Square in 1838, aged seventy-nine.

[305] This novel was passing through the press in 8vo, 12mo, and 18mo,
to complete collective editions in these sizes.--J.G.I.

[306] Afterwards Sir David Brewster. He died at Allerley House on the
Tweed, aged eighty-seven, on February 10, 1868.




AUGUST.


_August_ 1.--Yesterday evening did nothing for the _idlesse_ of the
morning. I was hungry; eat and drank and became drowsy; then I took to
arranging the old plays, of which Terry had brought me about a dozen,
and dipping into them scrambled through two. One, called _Michaelmas
Term_,[307] full of traits of manners; and another a sort of bouncing
tragedy, called the _Hector of Germany, or the Palsgrave_.[308] The
last, worthless in the extreme, is, like many of the plays in the
beginning of the seventeenth century, written to a good tune. The
dramatic poets of that time seem to have possessed as joint-stock a
highly poetical and abstract tone of language, so that the worst of them
often remind you of the very best. The audience must have had a much
stronger sense of poetry in those days than now, since language was
received and applauded at the Fortune or at the Red Bull,[309] which
could not now be understood by any general audience in Great Britain.
This leads far.